The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 439

Chapter 439
Cassian's POV

My eyes scan the social media post on her phone screen. The image is grainy, but the timestamp is from the middle of our honeymoon. 

Reyna, smiling coyly at the camera. And me, in the background, holding a small pharmacy bag. 

The caption is a masterpiece of insinuation; 

‘I wonder why Mr. Blackwell went through all that trouble to buy Panadol overseas…? #blessed #together #in_sickness_and_in_health’

But I have no memory of this, until I suddenly remember the Nassau trip. It was raining heavily when Gemma stood me up, and Reyna almost fainted while accompanying me to the hotel. 

It was basic decency to show to a former colleague and friend, but I never saw her take a single picture… let alone the collage of pictures she has posted to her account, implying a completely different story for that night. 

“She even had the medicine with her already, I didn't buy it. I really didn’t know she would post something like that.”

Gemma just shrugs, like she is dismissing me out of tiredness. 

She has already built a case against me with evidence I didn’t know existed, and my explanations sound feeble, even to my own ears. 

The silence is broken by Hazel, padding up the stairs with a happy grunt. She nudges Gemma’s hand and she bends over, her expression softening as she strokes her head. 

She doesn’t look at me again, leaving with the dog at her heels, leaving me standing alone.

Before following them downstairs, I pull out my own phone. My fingers are cold. 

I find the audio file, the damning recording of Gemma's conversation with Reyna, that Gemma had leaked. I’d dismissed it as a cleverly faked evidence, designed to suppress the online chatter. 

But now, with this social media post, I can't take risks. 

I send the file to Adam with a terse message: [Verify the authenticity of this. Full forensic analysis, now.]

Gemma's POV

I'm squatting on the carpet with the comfortable weight of Hazel leaning against my leg, scratching behind her ears.

Cassian finally comes down the staircase with a stern expression that reminds me of the serious, focused CEO of Blackwell Industries. 

“Gemma, I have some news about the incident at yesterday’s festival.”

My hand stills on Hazel’s head. 

“The light stand collapse wasn’t an accident?”

He gives a grim nod. “There was damaged surveillance footage from a perimeter camera. The data was restored today.” 

He pauses, his gaze fixed on mine. “I recognized a very familiar face.”

Grandpa, who has been watching us with hawk-like attention, sets his teacup down. 

“Then we should all see it.”

Cassian pulls up the footage; it's grainy, washed out in places, but clear enough. The timestamp places it just before the crowd arrived. A shadowy figure moves with deliberate steps toward the base of the massive spotlight stand. 

He is dressed in dark clothes, a cap pulled low over his face, but as he turns, a sliver of light from a passing utility vehicle catches his profile.

“William again!” 

I blurt out, caught between fury and disbelief.

My mind races, rejecting the possibility of coincidence. 

“Wait…” I say, pulling out my phone. “Let me call Zina.”

She answers on the first ring. 

“Zina, is the tracker on William still active?”

“Yes, it is. Why?” 

Her voice is instantly alert, hearing the tension in mine.

“William was the one who tampered with the light stand yesterday. The footage shows him loosening the screws.”

“What? Hold on, let me check.” 

I hear some swishing sounds, followed by a rapid-fire clatter of keys. A moment later, she speaks up. 

I check the time. My flight leaves tomorrow… I can’t let this situation hang over me. 

“We will go to the source. Let’s arrange a meeting with William, I’ll bring both sets of footage.”

I hang up and turn to leave. Cassian is right behind me.

“I’ll go with you.”

He states, and I start to refuse out of habit, but he cuts me off, his voice leaving no room for argument. 

“You’re leaving soon. The fireworks were my idea. The security lapse is my responsibility.” 

We arrange to meet at Urban Lane, near William’s home.

The sight of William’s arrival shocks us all. His right arm is encased in a stark white cast, cradled awkwardly against his chest.

Zina, who’s just joined us, gasps. “What happened to you?” 

It's not just the cast, but his overall appearance, which used to be so refined. Now he looks shattered.

“I fell off my bike a few days ago,” William explains, his voice reflecting embarrassment. 

But my mind is already leaping ahead to connect the dots. In the festival footage, the saboteur used both hands freely. While in the park video, William kept one arm held stiffly, close to his body. 

We had missed the injury.

“Did you call me over for something specific?” William asks, looking between our grave faces.

Wordlessly, I hand him my phone, both videos cued up. He watches, his face turning as white as a sheet. 

His eyes widen, first with confusion, then with horror.

“He looks exactly like me…”

He swallows hard. 

“I know it sounds impossible, but please, try to believe me. The person in that video isn’t me!”